Nice Guys Finish Lunch
🦋🦋🦋
Smarting from the smackdown Lil Confucius handed me, I plodded to the backyard, shoulders slumped, eyelids heavy, and spirit drained. Dad was out there, across from the maple, busily picking some baby tomatoes for our breakfast salad from an organic vegetable garden that he had single-handedly created. It was his pride and joy, a botanical wonderland impressive enough to make even Alice Waters green with envy.
The garden was built primarily for his vegetarian wife and the kids, who, thanks to her influence, leaned heavily toward a veggie-rich, reduced-meat diet. He had his own reasons too. On this 900-square-foot patch of fertile, red Georgia soil, he cultivated specific vegetables—baechu (napa cabbage), gochu (red peppers), and mu (turnips)—that are essential for making kimchi, the iconic dish embodying Korean culture. For Dad, a meal felt somewhat hollow without the spicy tang of kimchi gracing the table. He also painstakingly raised baby tomatoes like they were his own children, alongside their green playmates of cucumbers, zucchini, kale, and perilla leaves.
Dad was a man of few words and even fewer social inclinations, sans hobbies or friends outside of our tight-knit family. Beyond the time he spent with his best friend, Mom, his days were divided between work, reading nonfiction books like Rachel Carson’s Silent Spring, or rooting for the Braves, Bulldogs, Falcons, Hawks, or Yellow Jackets on TV—quite animatedly, I might add.
But come weekends or holidays, he’d immerse himself in his mini-farm, toiling contentedly for hours on end. Even during blistering summers, he’d be out there, sweating beneath the Georgia sun that bore down like an unrelenting furnace.
On those summer weekend afternoons, Dad would grab his compact portable radio and head outside, flipping between jazz tunes and the Braves game as he tended his plot. He’d vibe to the mellow, elegant notes of Miles Davis or Thelonious Monk one minute, and the next, he’d be hanging onto every word from the Braves’ announcer Ernie Johnson. The old play-by-play man’s mellifluous voice was as sweet as iced Georgia peach tea on a sultry day, especially when Braves were winning. Every so often, the tranquility of our home would be punctuated by an ecstatic shout from the backyard whenever Dale Murphy, his favorite player and my boyhood hero, knocked one soaring into the stands.
🦋
“Hey, Dad, how are the cruciferous veggies looking this fall?” I feigned interest despite my past indifference to his horticultural pursuits.
He turned to me, a quizzical look on his face, his hands cradling freshly-picked baby tomatoes. I was fully aware that convincing Dad would be like desperately grasping at thin air. But with the poor kitten’s fate on the line, I had to give it my best shot.
“Dad, I won’t beat around the bush. How do you feel about having a companion animal living with us?”
He paused for a few seconds while running his fingers through his tousled hair, a habit of his when unsure of what to say or do.
“Well,” he said softly, “I’ve always had a soft spot for dogs.”
“Really?” His confession caught me off guard. This was brand new information.
“Yeah, when I was a kid, every summer break your grandma would send me down to her brother’s farm. I’d help out in the rice paddies in the mornings, then spend the afternoons splashing around in the local brook with my cousins. After that, we’d meet up with the other kids from the village and play outside for hours, even after the sun finally dipped behind the mountains.”
Perhaps triggered by the resurfacing of a cherished childhood memory that had long lain dormant in his mind, Dad’s face suddenly lit up. It was as though the weight of his years momentarily lifted.
“Well, one summer, Uncle’s Jindo dog had a litter of four adorable puppies. He offered me one, so I excitedly called your grandparents, hoping they’d agree. But they flatly said no. There were no discussions, debates, or family votes. The parents’ word was absolute law back then.”
Dad let out a sigh, seemingly still affected by that distant childhood memory, the light from the morning sun glistening off his increasingly graying hair.
“Well, the good news is, our family is different. You still have a fighting chance, my boy.
“But of course, having said that, I’m really sorry that I can’t vote for you, even though I know how badly you want to keep that kitten.”
“Forget about it. To tell you the truth, I wasn’t banking on your vote to begin with. And trust me, I completely get your desperate urge to avoid sleeping on the couch and Mom’s killer volleyball spikes.”
“Son, speaking of those spikes, just the other night, I was deep asleep when a sharp pain in my back stunned me awake. I sat up, yelling, ‘Ouch! What the—?’ But before I could even finish, another jolt, like an aftershock, landed on my back. I swear, there are no words to describe that pain.
“Can you guess what triggered her middle-of-the-night attack? She said I cheated on her … in her dream. Her dream! I wanted so badly to defend myself, but I knew better. Arguing would’ve just brought on an even harder hit, probably a 9.5 on the Richter scale of smashes.
“So, without missing a beat, I apologized for whatever my dream-self did wrong and quickly slipped back under the covers, hoping to avoid any more late-night surprises. Son, let me tell you, I’ll do everything I can to avoid her wrath. And I’ll do whatever it takes to stay clear of those devastating spikes.”
“Dad, as someone who’s also been on the receiving end of that indescribable pain, I feel you, yessiree Bubba. Why do you think my radio alarm clock is set to a loud classic rock FM station? Whenever I oversleep, Mom’s only too happy to barge into my room and volleyball-spike my back to wake me, that’s why. Lord knows I’d much rather wake up to a blaring Eddie Van Halen guitar riff than Mom’s ferocious smashes.”
“Hear, hear. Well, good luck, kiddo. About the vote, I know I’m talking out of both sides of my mouth, but I’ll silently cheer you on. I wouldn’t mind a cat in the house.”
“Aww, Dad…”
“Let’s hope your siblings will all vote for you. For that purpose, I’ll have a talk with your brother to make sure he votes for you. Be sure to keep this a secret. If your mother ever gets wind of this, I’ll be a goner, that’s for sure.”
“Oh, my innocent father, Hyung’s vote’s already stashed away in my back pocket. Could you… would you… might you be interested in lobbying Maknae on my behalf?”
“Surely you jest, right?”
Doggone it!
🦋
Although I wasn’t getting his vote, I appreciated his sharing the puppy story. I mean, he rarely ever talked about his childhood days to his kids. Korean fathers from the past generations were notorious for their stoic demeanor and the brevity of their spoken words, and my dad was no exception. Like his daddy before him and his daddy before him, Dad was not much of a talker and didn’t outwardly display much affection for his family, having grown up in a culture that frowned upon men showing too much emotion.
But all his actions were motivated by his love for the family. Korea in the 1980s was still a developing country governed by a military junta, and he felt it would be a steep challenge to achieve his goal of educating all his children up to college level. With Mom’s approval, he decided to move the family across the Pacific Ocean after his sister, and my paternal aunt, in America suggested that he come, with our Air Force officer uncle serving as the sponsor for our immigration visas.
Now older than Dad was when he first set foot in America, I, as a single man without children, cannot fathom the weight of the heavy burden he had to carry on his slender shoulders. He toiled without complaint to keep his family fed and his children educated, despite the language barrier, cultural differences, and unfamiliarity with American life as an immigrant. He may not have been voluble, but we all felt his love through his sacrifices. As they say, talk is indeed cheap.
A famed Major League baseball manager named Leo Durocher once claimed that “Nice guys finish last.” When it comes to my beloved father, I much prefer this quote by Douglas Clark Kenney, a Harvard wit who co-founded the now-defunct but once influential humor magazine National Lampoon: “Nice guys finish lunch.” With a side dish of organic homemade kimchi for my dad.